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intended for Rourke | forward dated to the 30th

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the trees stood like old gods mother spoke about. tall sentinels, tipped with frost. thrúd moved between them with a brisk step, cracking frostbitten undergrowth beneath her paws. her breath came in clouds, curling silver in the cold, but her stride was unbothered. wind worried the tangled fur along her shoulders, but she barely blinked.

snow clung to her legs, dustings and frozen clumps. they did not weigh her down—not really. there was no destination—just motion, just the pull of wilds that wouldn't let her stay still. birds startled at her passage, wings beating overhead, and her ears twitched at the sound. crows. pretty.

breath rattles heavy in his chest, taut around his lungs. he hardly feels the ache in his leg, but his eye— or rather, what once was his eyes, aches something terrible. the pain stretches from his head to his jaw, and the bleeding has hardly slowed. but he is as stubborn a man as he is cruel, and rourke will not allow sleep to claim him now.

the startled flight of fearful birds puts him on alert, and a throaty growl spills from his lips, one that dies when he sees it is only a child passing through. the barbarian does not acknowledge her, only grunts and carries on his way with lumbering, limping stride.

blood taints the air sharp as pine sap. her nostrils flare. her eyes catch on the shape of him—hulking, wounded, wrong. not wrong in the way prey is, or cowardice, but in the way a storm is wrong when it comes too early and too hard. a star burning too bright too fast.

she says nothing, as she walks closer, fluttering through the trees like a shadow bonded to him. gold eyes burn under her brow, silent as shadow. she could vanish again just as easy—but she doesn’t. curiosity keeps her here. her steps slow, head tipping.

she tails him just enough to keep him in sight, to watch the beast limp through the snow like it owed him something. grumbling to himself, probably.

he doesn't stop. doesn't look. just keeps limping forward, one paw dragging where the wound bites deepest. snow clings to his fur, streaked red about his chest and neck. not his, not all of it. the trees lean in close, silent witnesses.

and she's there, too. flickering behind him like a shadow. "keep starin', you'll burn a hole in me." he growls, voice a low rumble in his chest. half snarl and half laugh, somewhere between threatening and nonchalant. his ears flick, contemplative. he could vanish. disappear. he's done it a thousand times, slipped through bars and cages and chains made of iron. but something about her is remarkably not dangerous, and he is far too tired to run.

"whatever you think you're lookin' for, girl...i ain't it. promise you."

still, he does not chase. does not bare teeth. just keeps moving. slower now, so she can keep up if she wishes. snow crunches 'neath his paws like bone. the storm rolls quiet inside his chest.

she doesn’t answer—not at first. just watches, gaze pinned to the dragging limb, the blood like rust against snow, the way he moves like a ghost too stubborn to fade.

she had seen wolves die. seen warriors crack under less. and yet this one, he keeps going.

her breath slips out slow, forming pale clouds in the air between them. her head tilts upon axis, crooks her shoulders into a carefree shrug. keeps her pace steady behind him, distant but not far. a shadow that doesn’t press—yet doesn’t leave.

wasn’t lookin’ for you, she says at last, just found you.

curious. is it your desire to bleed out, or is your pride simply barring you to it?

why? he stops in his tracks, but does not turn to face her. you plannin' to do something about it? he knows that answer already. if she is not here to watch him die, she is here to stop him from sealing his own fate. rourke sits, bloody face pointed downward, and waits.

take a look if you want. not much to be done. a bitter lie, but she has interrupted his pity party. some part of him still wants her to leave. healing is a woman's job, something maternal which leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. he will live, and he will bear the scars of a battle won.

she pauses with him. for a breath, two, she says nothing. just watches the back of him, the blood staining pale fur.

when she finally moves, it’s without rush. steps around him slow until she can see the damage for herself. it’s worse than he lets on—of course it is. his left eye is gorged from the socket, a foreleg ruined in a way that left him limping. thrúd snorts. men.

don’t flatter yourself. the girl scoffs. you are lucky these aren't infected yet, sulking bastard. she turns from him without ceremony, padding a few steps toward dying underbrush, where the snow is thinnest beneath the trees. then sit there and rot, if it suits you. or follow, and maybe you will keep that leg of yours. an exaggeration, aimed to bring him closer.